


Possession is 9/10s of the Law

by bunnyangel



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fae & Fairies, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Pixies, Werewolf!Eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26471758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyangel/pseuds/bunnyangel
Summary: Buck finds a pixie.It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 89





	Possession is 9/10s of the Law

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @AstroAngel and @phoenix911 for the beta. I did make some additions after, so any errors are mine.
> 
> Some parts of this were based on a TW fic I read once upon a time. If you recognize any parts and remember the name, please lmk so I can credit.

Eddie can smell the pixie dust on him. It's faint, but unmistakable and more than enough to put every pixie-loathing cell in his body on alert.

For something like _that_ to get involved with someone as chaotic and good as Buck--his head already aches with phantom pain.

"Okay," he says, blocking the exit at the end of their shift. "Tell me what's going on. You've been acting weird."

Buck looks rightly confused because no, he in fact hasn't been acting weirdly, but he doesn't know what Eddie knows. "What do you mean? I haven't--."

"Come on," he interrupts, impatient. "Just tell me and get it over with so we can go home. What did you do?"

Buck blinks again, forehead scrunching somewhat adorably. "How do you do that?" He shakes his head. "Never mind. Come over and I'll show you." He actually _bounces_ as he heads for his Jeep, excitement in every step.

Eddie tries not to scowl too obviously, because _pixies_ , man. This is going to be lovely. Pixies aren't _dangerous_ per se, and he's definitely not afraid, but they sure are annoying as shit; just all-around assholes in general and _especially_ hostile to werewolves. Yea, this is just…going to be lovely.

The pixie looks freaking fine because of course, it is. They're hardy little pests, nearly impossible to get rid of under usual circumstances.

He glares at its tiny, unconscious figure as Buck fusses over the tiniest DIY bandage ever, but fixes his face into the appropriate amount of skepticism and confusion when he looks back.

He had considered, and discarded, on the way over the following reactions:

  1. Pretend he doesn't see it all--that Buck is hallucinating, and then dispose of the threat ASAP (SUPER tempting);
  2. Play up the dangers by pretending to be a mythology nerd (maybe);
  3. Blurt out that he's a werewolf and that werewolves have a longstanding and mutual enmity towards Fae (not optimal); or
  4. Pretend (mostly) ignorance and just roll with it until he can dispose of the threat (his usual standby).



"So, what is it?"

Buck gapes at him and then shakes his head. "Man, Eddie, did you not watch Disney movies growing up? It's a little pixie! Like Tinkerbelle!"

"Tinkerbelle?" He knows what Buck is seeing, but he also knows what lays underneath that glamour of dewy skin and cherubic face.

"From…Neverland? And Pixie Hollow? With her friends Silvermist, Rosetta, Iridessa, Fawn, Terence, and Vidia??? Her sister Periwinkle???"

Buck looks increasingly distraught as Eddie just wrinkles his nose in both confusion and disgust.

"I was busy playing outside." It's true, too. He had lots of fond memories tumbling around in the woods with his sisters, shredding little wandering, trespassing pixies to pieces before they could swarm.

"We're having a marathon with Christopher next week," Buck announces solemnly. Eddie can't help the full-body twitch as the man goes back to staring adoringly at the little nuisance.

Yea…over his dead body.

"Periwinkle," he mutters. "What the fuck."

Maybe Chim will want to switch shifts.

"So it's a pixie. Is it dangerous?"

Buck pauses. "I don't think so?"

"You sound really unsure there, Buck. It could be a flesh-eating manic pixie for all you know." He's all too familiar with the damage those tiny little teeth, especially in an entire troupe, can do. It may not be catastrophic or fatal, but it still hurts like shit.

Buck looks up again, brow wrinkling. "Is that--is that an actual thing?"

He suppresses a smile. Six-foot men with more muscles than even some werewolves he knows should not be so damn cute. Eddie kind of hates him.

"Anyway, it's tiny," Buck continues. "What's the worst that can happen?"

Eddie doesn't know it yet, but he'll regret the answer to that question.

Everything is wrong. The sky is...purple and the grass looks blue. The moon is both too close and too far and too swollen where it lays nestled in a wavering sea of stars. There's a bloody tinge to the air and a jangled melody weaving through it.

Something is sliding so excruciatingly _soft_ across his bare skin that it hurts. At the same time, it weighs down his already heavy limbs, keeping him locked in place. It takes actual thought and effort to draw air underneath all the pressure, and he barely manages. Buck feels both sick to his stomach and as high as a kite; a topsy-turvy roller coaster ride he can't disembark and is almost unsure if he wants to, right now. 

There's a small figure hovering in front of his face. He thinks, at first, that it's his pixie. It doesn't have a splint, but the bit of fabric he used to bind its arm is now tied around its neck like an accessory. 

It's not though. His pixie. It can't be.

Its skin is pale like a day-old corpse, and definitely missing that magical glow. The face is terrifyingly alien. The eyes are large and bulbous, holding his reflection in its deep and dark and cold depths. Fleshy antennae protrude from beneath a bald head. Rows and rows of carnivorous teeth gleam at him in a rictus grin. Its voice is a dissonant buzz instead of a musical chime.

“So pretty,” it says, touching him with a tiny, cold hand.

Five sharp pinpricks trail down his cheek and brush at his lashes. 

"So bright," it continues and then leans in. " _Welcome home, bright_.”

Tiny teeth sink in, and he's gone.

Everything is wrong and time is meaningless. He drifts and he dreams and he's not quite sure, but he thinks--

His mother sips another chardonnay and toasts him blankly before his father slams the door to the study shut. The lock is resounding, echoing louder and louder and--

Maddie walks out the door, but when he runs through after her, there's only the bright splash of blood on snow. He calls and he calls, but there's only the howling wind and--

Christopher laughs and laughs as he sinks beneath the waves. His tiny, clawed fingers slip just through his grasp before tightening around his hand and dragging him in. Down and down until he chokes until he drowns and--

Everything is wrong and _he's_ wrong; The horribly jarring melody that never ceases in his ears and swims in his veins, and the tiny footsteps that pad the unending expanse of his increasingly gray skin. The tiny bursts of clarity, here and there, sharp and deep and wet. Tiny mouths and tiny teeth that cut into his skin like butter, red rivulets decorating his body like ribbons for them to dance with.

Tiny bursts of clear, utter terror for a situation he still doesn't quite understand but knows has gone horribly wrong before the haze descends and he's back to where he's started.

When he opens heavy, lidded eyes and sees Eddie for once, a tiny spark of something streaks through the haze, blazing brightness in its wake. The discordant song, for once, is silent.

The man is entirely naked for some reason, an imposing figure cut in the sharp relief of moonlight and shadowed in vivid red. He blinks slowly, unable to comprehend the apologetic devastation on that handsome face as it approaches.

"E'die," he murmurs, a bare breath of sound.

"Oh, sweetheart," Eddie says, voice thick with something un-nameable, and he reaches out and actually _touches_ him. It's a startling point of heat in the cold gray of his world. "I'm so sorry. I'm here. You're okay. I'm here."

He wants to sink into it, wants to sob in relief _, awareness_ thrumming beneath the heavy weightlessness of reality.

His eyes close instead.

When he wakes again he's warm for the first time he can remember. The drag of cotton and polyester on his skin is startlingly abrasive. He can't decide if it's good or not, but it's still a _relief_ to feel and it makes him squirm, regardless.

"Shhh," Eddie says into his hair. "I've got you. You're okay. Pixie toxin is potent, but not particularly lethal. You'll feel better soon."

True to his word, the spinning nausea and the throbbing headache eases as time goes on. The bedsheets feel more...normal, if not still foreign, beneath him. The airy, almost non-existent weight of his body feels grounded and _real_. The arm slung around his waist, and the male body curled around him is definitely real. The masculine scent beneath his nose and the heart beating against his cheek is definitely real.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says, quiet and sincere.

He doesn't know what Eddie's sorry for. Maybe he doesn't want to know. He buries his head into the warm muscle in front of him and doesn't reply.

But Eddie isn't deterred.

"I'm so sorry I let them take you."

And that, well, that strips back the fog of denial pretty effectively.

_Don't do this_ , he wants to plead, shuddering. Shaking fingers sink a little deeper into smooth, tanned skin. He's not ready. He's not.

"I meant to take care of it before it could do anything, but it moved faster than I anticipated, and then it took some time to locate exactly which troupe took you." There's desperation in Eddie's voice; an unvoiced plea.

The next words are peeled almost reluctantly from his mouth, dragging with them the dread curling in his stomach. "How long...how long have I been missing, exactly?"

He can _feel_ the hesitation in the hard body he's clutching at like a teddy bear. He swallows around the nausea building in his throat as the silence stretches.

Eddie squeezes him a little tighter.

"Thirty-two months."

He spasms, the whisper ringing in his ears.

Thirty-two months.

He's lost almost three years of his life and he barely knows it.

The world grows a little fuzzy, and the air grows scarce until he can make out Eddie murmuring at him.

"Shh, shh. Breathe with me. Come on. It's okay. There we go. You're okay."

"T-thirty-two months?" He finally chokes out, having finally caught his breath.

"Time...moves differently in the Fae realm, so it's closer to six days for--for you. But...you've been gone thirty-two months here."

Thirty-two months. Six days.

"Oh my god," he says faintly as hysteria bubbles. He laughs until he cries; buries his nose back into Eddie's collarbone and clings with all his strength. "Oh my god."

"I'm sorry," Eddie says, miserably. "I'm so sorry."

It will take time to get his life back, the _supernatural adjacent attorney_ tells him.

Eddie had done his best, but thirty-two months is a long time. Long enough for his mortgage to default and his certifications to lapse and for a lot of people to notice.

"Your stuff is in the attic," Eddie admits, cheeks pink and gaze not quite meeting his. "I'm sorry--."

"It's fine," he interrupts. His smile feels lopsided, but his chest feels warm. Eddie always makes him feel warm, these days. "Thank you, Eddie."

"We've got our people building an official trail for a "kidnapping" scenario, but it's up to you what you want to tell your loved ones," the attorney says. "Should you choose to inform them of the truth, please let us know. We'll have to account for that."

He nods along to everything she says, takes the documents she hands him, and then sinks his head into his hands when she leaves.

"So...what are you?"

The question has been circling in the days since his rescue, but it had never seemed pertinent to ask.

Whatever Eddie is, he'd saved him.

Whatever Eddie is, he's still Eddie.

But he finds himself desperately wanting to know, right now.

"I saw," he adds softly. "Your eyes were glowing."

A beat.

He looks up and Eddie looks apologetic again. He hates how familiar it is.

"A werewolf."

"And Christopher?"

"Human."

He exhales shakily, laughter bubbling in his throat and a thread of panic zipping up his spine.

Pixies and werewolves and _supernatural adjacent lawyers_ , oh my.

His skin is crawling. The air tastes like blood--

Everything is still real. He's still here. He's still safe.

"W-what would you do?"

_Would you have told_ me _?_

"I...can't decide that for you."

"I'm not...I don't think I'm ready yet," he says. "I'm not--I'm just not ready yet."

"Hey," Eddie says, placing a careful hand on his back, large and broad and warm. It's both stabilizing and yet sends his stomach flopping. "Whenever you're ready. I'm here."

Eddie's made a lot of mistakes in his life, but he thinks this might be the worst one.

Buck mostly floats around his house like a ghost, wan, and quiet. Six days have obliterated the warmth and sunshine and cheer, submerging them beneath apathy and fear and _trauma_ in a cycle on repeat. 

Sometimes the tiny, oblong scars on Buck's body are too much. Even as they fade he still touches them, rubs raw where they once sat because he knows exactly where they once marked his skin. Eddie has to thread his fingers through those endlessly wandering hands to still them, even as he understands because he'll never forget either.

Sometimes the soft things, the barest caress of a breeze across his skin, sends Buck back into a spiraling nightmare and it takes bruising fingers to stabilize him. It leaves both of them sick to their stomachs, albeit for different reasons.

At night they curl up together and Eddie will never admit it, but he craves the contact. Not just because of the peace that finally relaxes that too-thin body, but just the scent of Buck mixing with his as he clutches him closer and harder. He misses his son. He misses Buck. He finds himself increasingly unwilling to let go and feels all the worse for it.

Every tiny, lopsided smile is a hard-fought battle that he often loses just as quickly.

He loathes every part of him that didn't tear apart that damn pixie on sight. He loathes every part of him that took _months_ to settle his own affairs and find a Way through, even if most of that was to make sure Christopher was well taken care of and didn't _feel_ abandoned by his only remaining parent.

But that's another battle he's going to have to fight later--to get Christopher back from his parents, if he can. He's missed another three years of his kid's life and he doesn't know how much he'll resent him for it, despite all the reassurances he'd left him with.

So they exist together, there in the twilight of guilty gray mornings and red-tinged nights, six days and thirty-two months between them and a hole where his son needs to be.

And he waits for Buck to make it home.


End file.
